


Independence Week

by HeatedHeadwear (SplickedyHat)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Shenanigans, Time Travel, non-sburb AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:10:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/pseuds/HeatedHeadwear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, for no particular reason, Dave Strider finds himself unstuck in time and ends up messing with a dangerous criminal.  From their vantage point in normal chronology, the readers boggle vacantly at his non-linear shenanigans, with only the assistance of "Items"--useful illustrations--to give them any idea what his personal order of events is.  Highly experimental, may be confusing.  Requires some degree of brainwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Independence Week

**Author's Note:**

> Are you taking notes? Jesus, get a fucking pen or something.

**Sunday, 1/5/2003**

**1:36 am**

**Diamonds Droog: Observe boss.**

You hoped, after a heist as audacious as this one, that the boss would understand how important it is to lie low.  

…It could be worse.  After all, you convinced him to dump the body in the river at night this time.  And at least this time the bar you’re visiting for celebratory drinks is small and shabby.  There’s probably a nightlife somewhere in this town, but it probably draws the line at such an establishment.  The lights are dim, the bartender is old, and the jukebox playing in the corner is even older.  It’s a pretty low-key place.

But the boss has never been a low-key drunk and he keeps fiddling with the ring on his right hand.  You know he’s been itching to try out the godtech on some poor bastard, and you will acknowledge a little apprehension at the thought that it might be the inoffensive old bartender.  Or the jukebox, for that matter.  You haven’t forgotten last time.

You spare a glance at your associates.  Deuce is already out cold, and Boxcars is steadily making his way through another pint.  You turn back to the boss just in time to see him take another shot.

It’s only a matter of time before he starts a fight.  The only question is who—or what—the object of his attentions will be.

It is at this moment that a kid comes through the door.

You register his appearance as a matter of habit: maybe sixteen, a bit scuffed up, blond, wearing dark glasses.  As he walks in, he tears what looks like some kind of red cloak from his shoulders, acts as though he’s about to throw it away, and then seems to think better.  He ties it around his waist instead.

He is also wearing a party hat.  The final item kicks this kid to the top of most likely to get stabbed list.  You ease back a little on your bar stool; if pieces of things start flying, you may have to move fast.

The boss has already noticed the hat, and he sits up a little straighter.  Time for one of his trademark one-liners.

“Jack Noir,” says the kid.  Upon closer inspection, he looks pissed. And now of course the boss looks pissed too.  Must be wondering how in the hell would someone know that name.  You know that’s what he’s wondering because you’re asking yourself the same question.  He hasn’t been Jack Noir in years.

At this point, the boss would usually be on his feet and closing the distance, but the kid is saving him the effort.  He takes wide, angry steps across the floor until he’s within six feet of the boss, glaring.

“Alright,” he says, “here I am!  It’s ’03!  What do I do to incur your awesome wrath?”

The boss seems to disregard the actual content of what the kid’s saying, like only the angry tone of voice is coming through to him.  “You from Harley, then?” he asks, reaching slowly for his deck of cards.

The kid pauses.  “Harley?”

The boss raises one hand, displaying the ring on an extended middle finger.  “Guess you’re not here for this, then, huh?”

The kid stares, deadpan, for a moment, and then says, “As a matter of fact no, I didn’t wake up today jonesin’ for your jewelry.  What was that shit you were saying about ‘Harley’?”

“None of your business if you don’t know,” says the boss, lowering his hand to equip himself with one of his numerous knives.  “But I’ve been dyin’ for a fight, and soon you will be too!”

Classic Spades Slick.  You take an extra subdued step backwards, just in case the blood sprays a couple feet further than usual.  

“Nice line,” says the kid, and to your faint surprise he looks utterly relaxed.  “…But I have all the time in the world to deal with you.  Guess I know how that grudge of yours kicks off now, huh?”

“Keep talkin’, kid!”  The boss takes a step forward like he’s about to start running, and then—

The next moment is a bewildering light show; afterwards, blinking away the streaks across your vision, you realize you suddenly know jack shit.  You’ve seen the ring at work once before—the simultaneous flashes of green light, one indicating the boss’s starting point, the other his destination.  But this time, you’re sure you saw red too, all around the kid.  And for the single moment when the two colors collided, there was the boss, frozen, still coalescing out of particles, and there was the kid, hand stretched out in front of him…

And then something happened.  You remember a whirring sound that seemed to enter your brain without passing your ears, a full-body feeling of twisting, as though the universe rolled back around you, and a hole where the boss had been—not a hole in the floor or the wall or anything, but just a hole.  A space that seemed to eat at your eyes.

And then everything snapped back and here you are standing straight with your back to the bar.  You pull your handkerchief from your pocket and carefully wipe your face.  It seems your knees have locked this way, which is just as well because you would surely have dropped otherwise.  To your left, Boxcars vomits.  Deuce is still blissfully unconscious.

You swallow your nausea, collecting yourself, and start trying to parse out what just happened.  Before you can make any headway, however, the ticking, whirring sensation reappears.  You automatically brace yourself, but this time there’s no nausea, just another red flash.  And they’re back, the boss hanging over the kid’s shoulders by one arm.  His other arm, you observe, is missing.

Whoever patched up the kid also got the boss, but you’re not going to let that stop you from perforating someone.  You weigh the importance of making sure Slick doesn’t die against the pressing urge to blow the brat’s head off.

While you’re doing this, the kid drops the boss on the floor, where he lies swearing and groaning, and strides over to the bar.  You watch him, one hand creeping towards the gun in the waistband of your pants.  It’ll have to be a quick shot if you want to—

“Man, it has been a long fucking day,” says the kid, picking up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and examining it.  “Longer than April Fool’s with a house full of Egbertian pranksters wearing false ‘staches, you feel me?  I’ve always wondered what people see in this shit, but you know, if it’ll make this day feel a bit shorter—”

He takes a swig and you know this would be the perfect moment to punch one through him, but there’s a certain beauty in watching a first-time drinker try to swallow a mouthful of whiskey.  The kid’s resolute grimace turns quickly into tight-lipped discomfort, his face going slowly from anemic white to bright red.

As he bends double in a violent coughing fit, you draw a bead on him and squeeze the trigger with all the assurance of—oh shit, he’s gone.  The bullet cracks a hole in the varnished cherry of the countertop and Deuce sits up with a yelp, subsequently falling off of his stool.

In the queasy silence that follows, the boss’s hoarse voice can be heard trying to shout—“Striiiiiiideeerrrrrrr!”

You wonder if he’s making a Lord of the Rings reference.  Probably not.  In fact, it’s probably time for one of Spades Slick’s famous vendettas.  You haul yourself forward to get him on his feet.

 

**Friday, 6/9/2006**

**6:05 pm**

**Young Dave: Get in trouble.**

Today Bro said Independence Week was starting.  And you said, is that like a holiday?  And he said, kinda but with less patriotism and fireworks and more Strider.  And you shrugged and said okay cool.  What does that mean.  And he said that means you get to do whatever you want for a week…but he’ll have his eye on you.

And you asked did that mean you could go buy a CD on your own and he said yeah sure li’l man.

So that’s what you did.  And now here you are, strolling on down the sidewalk a block away from your house, a glossy new CD case under one arm.  The streets are always pretty empty around now, ‘cuz it’s hot for June, so when you see the man in black you’re kinda surprised.  You expect him to walk by like a normal person, but instead he comes right up to you, looking down, blocking your way.

You stare up at the guy.  He’s almost as big as Bro, but a lot skinnier.  Except he seems dangerous like Bro, and not in an okay way.  Bro is okay-dangerous.  This guy is scary.  And he has a metal arm, which is kind of extra scary because it makes you think about how he must’ve lost it.

You wonder if strifing would be a really bad idea.  You wonder if Bro is nearby, like he said he might be.  You wonder if he’s waiting to see what you do.

“Hey brat,” says the guy.  “You remind me of someone I hate.  What’s your name?”

“Dave Strider,” you say.   And then, because you’re a Strider, “Don’t throw it around, you’ll dent it.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” says the guy, and even as you tense up you know your flashstep isn’t good enough to get away on time.

And then the mysterious hero appears.

It’s not Bro, even though he’s blonde like you and Bro.  It’s not anyone you know—that’s why he’s mysterious.  You wonder why he’s wearing a party hat.  And a cape.

“Alright,” he says, “I’m here.  I remember how this goes.  Step off, asshole, killing kids isn’t a societally sanctioned recreational activity last time I checked.”

You can only see about half of the dangerous guy’s face around the mysterious hero’s shoulder, but he looks even more angry than he did before.  Which is saying something.

“You,” he says.  “It’s…you.”

The mysterious hero sounds amused at first, and then becomes suddenly annoyed.  “Is it really?  That’s…  Oh.  Oh fuck no.  No, you’re not going to get me like that, you’re not going to trap me in a fucking paradox, don’t even say another—”

“It’s been three years!” He snarls, like a dog.  You get more bad-danger feelings and take an involuntary step back.

“You said it,” says the hero.  “You fucking said it.  Now I have to go back, don’t I?  Let me guess, I look just the same as I did then?  I’d ask where this happens but I don’t give a shit because let’s face it, I’ll end up there one way or another—”

The guy punches him in the face—or tries, anyway.  The mysterious hero ducks to one side and a pair of round black sunglasses goes flying and falls on the concrete.  The guy in black stomps on them with a crunch.

He only gets one stomp in, though, and then he has to back up pretty quick to avoid a sword.  It’s an old, kind of shitty katana that looks kind of like the old one Bro’s been talking about getting rid of, and it looks like the hero knows how to use it.  One hand still holding the blade steady in the other guy’s direction, he flips the cracked glasses onto the toe of one shoe, flicks them into his other hand, and slides them back onto his face.  The other guy flexes the fingers of his right hand, the metal one.  The air around them changes a little.

“Alright, you freak-ass little man…no, wait.”  The threatening tone of voice fades.  “Shit, gotta go, I remember what happens after this.”  He glances back at you and you think he really does look like a Strider.  “Bro’ll take it from here,” he says, and then vanishes in a flash of red light.  For a moment there’s nothing between you and the other guy, and then Bro drops out of the sky.

This is a bit dramatic for Bro but hey, maybe he’s trying to make a point.  There’s a flash of metal and the dangerous guy screams.  A red line opens up over his right eye, blood trickling down his cheek.  Around the corner, you can hear sirens whining.

“Bro,” you say, not entirely sure what you want to tell him.  He looks at you, then over in the direction of the sirens, then back at the guy.  Then he kicks the guy in the knee (more screaming), picks you up, and the world liquefies around you as he absconds.

Your Bro is basically the fastest.  You’re past the age of asking for piggy-back rides, but on the occasion that he carries you somewhere, you enjoy it.  Stoically.

You wonder if you’ll ever know who the mysterious hero was.

 

**Thursday, 3/31/2013**

**12:15 pm**

**Dave: Drop off groceries.**

You wake up seeing red.  Literally.  Everything is saturated bright red, even through your glasses.  You blink frantically, trying not to panic, but it’s already fading.  You’re lying on the sidewalk outside the grocery store and a quick glance at your phone tells you it’s still about ten, but it looks more like noon.

Shit, your phone must be broken.  What happened?  Did that asshole knock you out?  All you really remember is him trying to strangle you, and that he looked  like that other asshole who basically tried to kill you when you were a kid.

More importantly, have people been walking past your lifeless body for hours while you took a little siesta on the sidewalk?  What the fuck is modern society coming to.  

Whatever happened, whether the crazy guy knocked you out or not, he apparently didn’t see fit to steal anything.  Your phone’s still on you, and so, you are please to find, is your wallet.  Your groceries are still there too.

Deciding you don’t have much else to do, you head home.  Maybe sometime you’ll call the police, but for now you just want to eat.  You’re starving.

You pass Mrs. Delora on the way into the apartment building, an occurrence that you note with a certain amount of guarded curiosity because she moved out last week.  She’s carrying her suitcases too.

“Forget something?” you ask, and she gives you a puzzled look, shaking her head.

The calendar in the lobby is still on March.  Looking at it, you feel inexplicably annoyed.  You have a feeling there’s something you’re forgetting.

The feeling sticks with you in the elevator, all the way up to the floor where you and Bro live.  Loaded down with bags full of rice and onions and peppers as you are, you have very little interest in putting everything down to dig the key out of your pocket.  Instead, you knock.

Inside, Bro’s muffled voice says, “See who’s at the door, Dave.”

Your brief confusion turns into heart-pounding panic when a voice—your voice—answers, “The fuck I will.”

Your first instinct would normally be to stick around and find out what the hell is going on, but instead, at the urging of some nascent sixth sense, you drop all the grocery bags on the ground and fumble in your back pocket for your phone.  Inside, the voice that is basically yours says, “I get the door, you buy pizza.”

The conversation is familiar.  You stare at your phone and yes, there’s the time, 10:32, and there’s the date, same as it was, but something is wrong—why are you checking the date?  Why would you check the date?

“Deal,” says Bro’s voice inside, and there’s a swish of air inside, the presence of someone flashstepping to the other side of the door.  As it opens, you do the only thing you can think to do and lunge forward, pulling it back the other way.

It is not the most graceful of maneuvers.  The door meets your face coming the other way and while nothing breaks, your nose is suddenly in a shitton of pain.

You only have a second to worry about what you’re going to do next before whirring and ticking fill your brain and the world goes red.

 

**Monday, 4/4/2013**

**9:00 am**

**Bro: Initiate Independence Week.**

You wake Dave up at exactly nine o’clock by way of initiating strife.  Over the past year, his sleeping-to-fighting time has decreased by exactly .08 seconds, but you’re not going to mention that because he probably already knows and you don’t want the fact that you noticed to go to his head.

After both your swords have been restored to their specibi, you tell him it’s time for Independence Week. He says he’s already practically independent anyway, what’s the point.  You ask him if he’s giving you sass.  He says he's just stating the honest truth, that by now this is just an excuse for him to make his own dinner while you mooch off of it.

You say so what, you taught him everything he knows and he owes you, get cookin’.

He says fine, but it’s gonna be stir-fry again.  That’s okay with you; it’s the only thing either of you knows how to cook anyway.  You are considering introducing the term “Stri-fry” to the household vocabulary, if only for ironic purposes.

That’s what you had for a couple dinners last week, in fact, after someone dropped a couple of grocery bags by the apartment door.  You still don’t know who that was or why they did it, but you guess you appreciate the thought.  You are, after all, a single Bro raising his beloved Striderchild.  You need all the help you can get.

Whoever it was, it was awfully thoughtful of them to pick out exactly what you needed for the traditional Strider meal.

Breakfast today is two glasses of orange juice—you’re out of apple juice again—and toast.  You turn on the radio and listen with passing interest at the announcements that an escaped criminal is confirmed to be in your area—black hair, five-four, rumored to be wearing a black leather jacket, likely in possession of a knife…

You let the news roll off you.  No need to worry about shit like that now that Dave can take care of himself.  And speaking of the kid…

You ask him when he’s gonna go see his Egbert and Lalonde friends.  He says they’re still getting settled in their hotels ‘n shit, maybe later this evening.  He seems distracted by his phone.

You say hey li’l man who’re you texting.  He says none of your business.  You say it’s Harley isn’t it.  He gives you a look and then says yeah maybe but she’s always busy these days, probably gonna be offline for a while.  Trying to replicate some hardware her grandpa made years ago.

You tell him good luck.  He says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, he’s going to go buy groceries.

You wave him off.

 

**10:16am**

**Jack Noir: Recognize the kid.**

When you’re done pukin’ you realize it’s daytime.  It’s daytime and your head is poundin’ and that god damn kid did this.  What fucking day is it.

You sit up with a groan and realize you’re lyin’ on a roof.  You got no clue where you are but you’re pretty sure it’s that kid’s fault.  The godtech ring is still on your finger, but a fuck of a lotta good that does you if you don’t…

Wait, hold up a second.  You’re on top of a grocery store.  You can see down in front of it and here are boxes of fruit’n shit.  And next to the yellow fruit, a stand with stacks of newspapers.

The roof isn’t too tall and you make the jump into the dirty little side alley with minimum swearing and injury.  Ain’t the best idea you’ve ever had, though, seeing as you’re still way out of it.  You remember after you land on your ass and one elbow that you have a teleporting ring that coulda done the job for you.

When you stalk around the corner of the store, you get wary looks and a wide berth from the bystanders around the building.  Which is good, that’s just how you like bystanders.  Afraid.  Of you.

You’re in motherfucking Texas.

The year on top of the paper is fucking 2013.

It has to be a mistake.  It’s gotta be.  Who put an extra 1 in 2003?  What dumbass is writing this paper?  And for that matter why the fuck are you in Texas when last thing you remember you were Cali, drinking whiskey with your crew.

And then you remember the way that kid just put out a hand and everything went red and still, and that red flash--  And thinking about the shit this godtech ring does, time travel seems a little less…

No, fuck that.  Time travel ain’t even a real thing.  In fact, it’s a fake thing, like magic, and—

And there’s the kid.

Walkin’ right up to the grocery store, probably here to buy some fruit ‘n shit.  You do the logical thing and try to strangle him.

The kid whips around pretty fast but you still manage to get a pretty good grip on his throat, completely forgetting that time travel is a fake thing and shouting “Send me back you little fucker!” It’s when you take one hand off to go for your knife that he equips a goddamn sword and you think maybe this kid ain’t quite normal.  He draws back the sword, his other hand still trying to wrench yours away from his neck, but you know you can move the knife faster.

He glances down and sees it comin’ for his throat and there’s a split second where you hear the ticking and have to make a choice of whether to keep going for the stab or jump back.

You do the jumping thing and the kid—

Well, the kid vanishes.

**10:20am**

**Rose and Bro: Try to understand.**

You’re mixing some ill beats when the li’l man throws a punch at your head, which is how you generally get each other’s attention.  You dodge with minimum effort and ask him what’s up, he’s back pretty early and where’s the stuff for the stir fry.

He says nothing’s up, just felt like punching you in the head.  You call bullshit, it was a weakass punch, obviously he wants some kind of Strider feelings jam, despite the fact that the term itself should be an oxymoron.  Also, he hasn’t told you why he’s back early with no stir fry stuff.

He says yeah maybe he has some stuff to ask about but don’t make it weird.  You’re tempted to completely ignore this and make it weird right off the bat just because there is a lipstick print on his cheek, but he looks kind of upset.

You close the file squuppetmix3(bassboost).mp3 and say Dave when have you ever made anything weird.

\--

You weren’t expecting a visit from Dave Strider this early in the day but you welcome him graciously into the hotel room anyway.

“I shoulda just gone straight home,” he mutters.  "This was a bad idea." He looks shaken, insofar as a Strider can.  He’s moving a little jerkily and he keeps nudging his sunglasses further up his nose as though covering his eyebrows will do him any good.

You are instantly intrigued.  “And why is ‘this’ a bad idea?  What is ‘this’?  More importantly, are you going to say hello?  It’s been years since the three of us last met up.”

“Rose,” he says, “you’re into magic and shit, right?”

\--

\--

Things take a turn for the weird when he actually starts talking.  First he says he’s pretty sure he’s going crazy and when you ask why he just sort of shrugs and says today’s just been fucking weird okay.

You’re not sure what could’ve happened in under an hour to make it so weird and you tell him so.  He just stares at you like there’s something he could say to that but won’t.  Your kid brother is the weirdest.

He just says what if the alternative to being crazy is even weirder than him being crazy.

You say what, like if the voices in your head are real.  He says something like that.

\--

“My mother is more interested in…magic,” you say.  “She is…shopping for her date tomorrow but she’ll be back in another half-hour if you want to stick around.  We could watch soap operas.  I could psychoanalyze the characters and make you feel uncomfortable.”

“That sounds like all kinds of fun and all, but I don’t really have time for that.  Except I do.  I have superpowers.  I time-traveled.  I left my groceries in last fucking week.  I was like Marty McFly in the fuckin’ Delorean except I don’t have a car.”

You consider this.  “Do you want my professional opinion?”

He stares.  “…Sure.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re going crazy.”

He stares a little longer, and then relaxes, oddly.  “Lot of help you were, Lalonde.”

“You’re not going to stay and meet my Mom?”

“I wish,” he says.  “From what you’ve told me she’s even weirder than you.  But I gotta get back home.”

“Why not stay and then time travel back to this point in time, and then go home?” you suggest sweetly, then relent when you see his face.  “…Alright, then.  It’s clear you’ve had a very strange day, whatever happened.”  On an impulse you stand up, pull him down, and kiss him on the cheek.

“That’s never coming off, is it?” he grumbles.  You smile.

\--

You say you don’t really give a damn what’s up with him so long as he isn’t killing anyone, but does he need professional help or something?  He just kind of grunts.

You see he’s already fed up with talking so you ask again—where’s the stir fry stuff.  He says he ran into that escaped criminal dude they were talking about on the radio earlier and the asshole tried to choke him to death.  He says remember that asshole you cut up back when he was a kid?  He thinks it was that guy.

You ask if that’s also where he got the bloody nose and also what about fuckin’ dinner, did the guy really steal the stir fry stuff? He just tilts his head in the direction of your computer and soundboard.  You get back to work as he leaves the room.

After that, you think for a moment you can hear him talking in the hallway through your headphones.  As you take them off you catch the tail end of a sentence—something about paradoxes—and then there’s a weird ticking noise and a weird red flash reflected on the wall outside your room.  You consider getting up to check on him then decide not to.

It’s independence week, after all.

 

**Tuesday, 4/5/2013**

**2:35pm**

**Dad Egbert: Defend.**

The sun is shining.  Birds are singing.  You are pouring wine for a beautiful lady.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

It is a testament to the inevitability of the universe’s tendency to prove this statement wrong that, seconds after you have the thought, someone barrels out of your periphery and subsequently falls face-first onto the pavement.  The table shakes and so does the hand you’re pouring wine with.  A couple of sparkling red drops land on Mz. Lalonde’s sleeve and your teeth clench guiltily around your pipe stem.

You make sure to set the wine back down before looking down at the newcomer.  He’s already righting himself, adjusting his sunglasses.  Even with a deadpan expression, he still somehow manages to look sheepish.

“Young man, what tomfoolery are you up to?”

“You’re Mister Egbert, right?  John’s dad?”

“Are you a friend of John’s?”

“And a friend of my Rosey’s!  I’ve seen pictures of you, hon, you’re the Strider kid, aren’t you?”

“That’s me.  The Strider kid.  Kid Strider.”

“Oh, you poor thing, what’d you do to your knee?”

The boy looks down at his bleeding leg as though he’s never seen it before.  You observe that he seems distracted and somehow you find this worrying.  It might have something to do with the fact that what little description John has given of his friend Dave has left you with the impression that he carefully maintains an image of “coolness”.

“Must’ve gotten scraped when I, uh, fell.  Could you guys do me a favor and not tell Rose and John about that?”

“Why’re you wearing a party hat, dear?”

“What?  Can we not talk about that?”

“’Cuz I know John’s birthday’s comin’ up soon, but it’s not that soon!”

“If I could take it off I would.  Listen, has anyone…dangerous-looking been following you too?  Short li’l fu—short dude, black hair, permanently angry-looking?”

“I did hear something about an escaped criminal on the news, but I think I would have noticed if someone with a metal arm were following us.”

“Metal—“

Dave stops and his mouth stretches ever so slightly.  You get the impression that he’s trying to remember something.  Before he has a chance, however, there’s a sound of yelling from across the street.  And there, indeed, is a short, angry man dressed in black, waving a knife in one gleaming hand and glaring with one baleful eye.

“I’ll take care of this!”

“Absolutely not.  Call the police on your cell phone, David.  As the adult in this situation—and the one who invited Mz. Lalonde on this date—I must apologize for this interruption and take care of the issue myself.”

“Aw, does that mean if I’d invited you I’d get to beat up the angry midget?”

“If you were so inclined, Mz. Lalonde.”

“Sweet!  Go on, honey, I’ll just pour myself another glass.”

You are not exactly well-versed in any specific martial art, as Mz. Lalonde is, but you are methodical and confident in what skills you do have, and the man in the leather jacket is frankly graceless.  A metal hand is nerveless and therefore cannot be incapacitated by pain.  You have to loosen his grip by force.  You strike out at the heel of his hand and the hilt of the knife and manage to dislodge it from his grip.

Your hand, however, is far from impervious and although the blow disarms your opponent, it also leaves your right tingling.  He snarls in a most ungentlemanly manner and you become aware as you counter his movements that his aim is not you but rather the people behind you.  Or, you suspect, Dave Strider specifically.

This will not do at all.

The criminal’s robotic right arm, though sturdy, is clumsier than his left.  You counter a punch, deal a swift blow to his left shoulder, and, as he draws back—presumably for a headbutt—you deftly curl up his metal arm and shove it with all your might at his oncoming face.

There is a clank and he staggers.  The rest is much easier.

**Dave: Do research.**

Who knew Egbert’s dad was some kind of kung fu master?  All you ever heard about him was that he likes throwing desserts at people.  You watch in something close to admiration, letting your sword drop back into your specibus as you begin to realize there really isn’t any need for it.

After that, things get a bit...busy.  There are police, and questions, and someone tries to take the fucking hat off your head, which of course doesn’t work but does uproot some hair, and in the end you just flashstep off, feeling kind of guilty about leaving Rose’s mom and John’s dad to deal with the cops.

That said, you do have an excuse.  There is something wrong here.  Something really wrong, and unless there’s another new-hatched time traveler around here you’re starting to think it’s your fault.  Or will be, anyway.

You do a little digging, which is less dramatic than it sounds since it’s mostly just making relevant Google searches.  The guys at the police station told you the asshole’s name is Jack Noir, but he goes by Spades Slick.  They wouldn’t tell you anything else, but you’re pretty sure it was less a case of privileged information and more one of them not knowing jack shit.

Google is a little bit more illuminating.  Jack Noir, alias Spades Slick, stole a piece of technology from a “prominent scientific research facility” which “did not wish to be named in this article”.  You’re pretty sure that information is out on the internet somewhere, but you doubt it matters that much.  Point is, he stole this thing and went on the run, but by the time they caught him he had the metal arm and the thing—whatever it was—was missing.

You recognize the scar over his eye in the mugshot.  You think back to seven years ago, when little ten-year-old Dave Strider ran into the guy for the first time.  You think about the Mysterious Hero, whose title, embarrassingly, has stuck that way in your head.

You’re pretty sure you know who he was now, and also why he was there.  It’s for the same reason that you’re about to be there.

Because he was you all along.

(Wow.  You.  Really?  Huh.  We’re blown away by this sudden and startling development.)

You remember that the mysterious hero was wearing a cape, and when Bro flash-steps in to drop a red blanket over your shoulders and nudge your head with one friendly, reassuring fist, you just kind of sigh and tie the corners of the blanket over your chest.

Time to figure out what went down in the past.

Here we go.

**10:39 pm**

**Rose and John: Worry.**

Your dad is still talking to the police somewhere, so you’re staying in the other room.  While Rose’s mom orders Chinese takeout in the other room, the two of you try Dave’s cell phone for what feels like the hundredth time.  As with the other ninety-nine or so, he doesn’t pick up.  Bored and annoyed, you recite quotes from Ghostbusters into his answering machine until Rose grabs the phone from you and says, “Answer your phone, you insufferable prick.”

Then she hangs up, says crisply, “I’m going for a walk,” and opens the door to the room.  You’re just getting up to follow her out—it’s been a long day and some fresh air could be nice!—when you hear this weird ticking noise.

It’s actually more of a ticking feeling, to be honest, and you feel it in your skull more than your ears.  It’s kind of disturbing, but not nearly as disturbing as what happens next.

Outside in the hallway, Dave appears.  Out of nowhere.  In a flash of bright red light.  He shakes his head like a dog getting water out of its fur and then looks up at both of you.  There is a long, long moment.

“I don’t suppose you guys saw that,” he says.

“I am not sure exactly what I’m supposed to have not seen,” says Rose in a slightly strained voice, “but I’m starting to reconsider my position on your mental state.  Or, in a worst case scenario, mine.”

You feel like you should add something at this point.  “Dude!  You just appeared out of thin air!”

“I know,” says Dave, “it’s kind of been happening all day.”

“Why are you wearing a party hat?”

He gives you a long, long look and then says, “You’ll find out.”

“John Egbert, always asking the important questions,” says Rose, rolling her eyes—but not in a mean way, really.  “Dave, explain.”

“I woke up today and I could time travel,” he says.  “There, I did it.  Did Jade tell either of you when she’ll be back?  She hasn’t been answering any of my calls.”

“You’ve surpassed yourself as a master of irony!” Rose snaps, waving her own phone back and forth.  “You should try picking up once in a while yourself.”

“She said it would be about a week,” you tell him, casting a worried look in Rose’s direction.  “What do you need to talk to her about?”

“Need to know about something that happened seven years ago in her Grandpa’s company,” he says.  “It’s about the—that did happen today, right, the thing with you guys’ parents and the—okay, good.  Technically I could stick around and chat ‘cause, you know, time travel, but I’d like to get this all out of the way relatively quickly.  Talk to you guys later.  Or earlier, haha, god.”

There’s that whirring noise again.  Dave takes a deep breath, relaxes, and then vanishes in a flash of red.

From the other room, Mom Lalonde calls, “Kids, do you want the crab chips?”

 

**10:51 pm**

**Bro: Talk to weird kid brother.**

When you return to Dave’s room, his computer is still there but he’s gone, along with the blanket you gave him.  And that’s pretty odd because Striders try to be too cool for blankets in general but walking around with one would generally be a definite no.  Unless it was ironic.

It’s Independence Week but things are getting too weird for you to let things go.  You’re gonna at least find out where the hell the kid went with your favorite blanket.

You end up running into him not two blocks away from the house.  He’s putting his cell phone back in his pocket and he looks kind of…not so good.

You observe him stoically until he stops staggering and then ask him what’s up.  He doesn’t even flinch, which is pretty impressive since you were doing your best impression of a patch of darkness.  Your impressions are generally pretty good

He says he fucked up bad.  Like, super bad, he messed something up for Harley and now he’s gotta go deal with it.  You say Harley huh, is that who you were talking to, and he just kind of glares and nods.  You remember then what he said about Harley being out of town and you mention it, which makes him go all quiet for a moment.  Then he says okay, this is how it is, he can time travel now.

This must be the weirdass brain shit he was talking about earlier.  You take it in stride, pun abso-fucking-lutely intended, and just sort of shrug in a “prove it” kind of way.

Which is when a second Dave appears out of nowhere and says sup.  You about have a restrained and stoic heart attack.  The Daves just kind of stand there for a couple seconds looking at each other until the new one tells the first Dave it’s time for him to go back and there’s a bright red light.

You stare at Dave, who is the same Dave but weirdly a couple of seconds older, and say that’s very interesting.  Time travel, huh.

He says yeah, and now he’s got to go deal with that shit he was talking about.  He accidentally time-traveled a teleporting guy from 2003 into the future and now there are two Jack Noir assholes here and even if one of them’s in jail now he kind of has to fix that.

Then he flashsteps away.

You don’t even have time to consider your next course of action before there’s some more red light and another Dave appears.

He still doesn’t look so good.  Worse, actually.

He looks even worse once he drops to his knees and starts coughing up a lung (not literally, though with all the blood it looks like it could happen).  He’s already bandaged and stitched and when you surreptitiously scoot your shades down your nose, you recognize your own needlework.

Well you’ll be damned.

You ask him what’s up with the coughing.  He says something went down the wrong pipe.  All the pipes.  Also, you need to be waiting in the little street off of Tippyditch Ave. around midnight with bandages and suture stuff, ready to cut the guy’s arm off when he appears.  He says it’ll make sense then.

You say what if you don’t go there.  It’s Independence Week, after all, you don’t have to look after him.  He just looks at you for a moment, his mouth kind of quirked up, and then he vanishes.

You’ve only know your bro is a time traveler for like five minutes and it’s already obnoxious.

You go get your First Aid kit.

 

**11:55 pm**

**Bro: Watch.**

From the roof of a building next to the little street off Tippyditch (you wish somehow that the name were cooler), you can see the big empty parking lot of the local park.  It’s empty right now, but you have a feeling that’s where it’s going to go down.  It’s the kind of emptiness that’s waiting to be filled.

At 11:57, Dave blurs into view, glancing around, business-like.  Looks like a man on the hunt.  You don’t watch him long because something catches the corner of your eye—the faintest impression of movement on the rooftops across from you.  A dark shape stands up and then vanishes in an implosion of bright green points of light.  Simultaneously, the reverse effect happens a couple feet from where Dave’s standing.

You expect the teleporter, who is definitely the metal-armed asshole whose eye you cut up when Dave was ten (but with both eyes and without the metal arm), to attack immediately, but apparently there’s some posturing to be done first…

 

**11:59 am**

**Dave: Do the timey thing.**

You’re getting tired of all this time shit, to be completely honest, but strifing with a dude who can teleport will require desperate measures.  Even Bro’s flashsteps are a hair slower than this guy.

So you have a plan.  And it’s a pretty good one, or it will be if you can manage to avoid dying.

You look down at your watch.  It’s exactly 11:59 so why not make midnight your base time?

“Hey, brat,” says Noir, and takes one step forward.  You hold your ground, aware that distance means basically nothing at this point.

“Hey, Scruffy,” you say, as nonchalantly as you can manage.  “Thought you wanted to get sent back to your own time.  I could make that happen for you, but there’s one catch…you gotta give me the godtech.  Capisce?”  You’re not sure about the capisce.  It was probably ironic.

“Fuck no!  I had plans for this tech in 2003,” snarls Noir. “Don’t make me cut you up, you little shit.  I ain’t gonna kill you yet but I got other ways of makin’ you do what I want.”

“That’s nice,” you mutter.  You don’t have time for a snarkier comeback because his hand is creeping towards his knife.  It’s not quite there yet, though, and that’s just as well because it just turned midnight.

Around you, sixteen Daves flash into view.  You don’t have to count to know it’s sixteen somehow, but looking over at your copies, you see a sliding scale of injury, wounds accumulating until they reach the last Dave.  You don’t really want to think about going through all that to be come Dave number sixteen.  Noir, who’s drawn his knife, does a pretty spectacular double take and narrows his eyes.  You half-expect him to shout, “Witchcraft!”.

The Dave closest to you leans over and says, “He starts now.”

There’s a green light and a sound like someone running a wet finger along the rim of a wineglass, and the Daves explode into action.  You join in, secure in the knowledge that you at least make it to sixteen iterations of yourself.  Around you, swords flash.  Sixteen Daves make a concerted effort to destroy Jack Noir, each one watching each other’s backs.  It helps that it’s technically all the same back.

Around you, your future unravels; soon you’ll see yourself doing what you’ve already done.

“You’re still fresh!” hisses your voice in your ear.  “Distract him!”

It’s harder than mundane humans might imagine to work in tandem with yourself, but you think you’re getting the hang of it.  You flashstep in front of Noir, not far enough away to make him teleport but barely out of his reach—an irresistible target.

He lunges forward and you stagger back, sucking in your gut so that the tip of the knife barely grazes your skin.

And then four Daves behind him swing their swords and two of them find their marks in Noir’s back and waist.  He vanishes in a flash of green and a splash of blood.

Apparently this is the end of the loop, because around you Daves are zapping away back to twelve o’clock.  There’s no sign of Noir.  You look at the sixteenth Dave, who is bleeding from the mouth and basically everywhere else, but before you can ask a blood-curdling howl rings out from one of the nearby alleys.

“Go back,” says Dave number sixteen.  You shrug and let yourself fall away into the ticking of the universal clock.

As the second Dave, you glance at yourself from about five minutes ago and say, “He starts now.”

You take a lot of swings at Noir and miss a lot, and rip open the other knee of your jeans in the process of totally failing a roundhouse kick.

When he finally vanishes, you instantly jump back to be the third iteration of yourself.  As the third Dave, you manage to land the blow to Noir’s side and escape unscathed.

As the fourth Dave, you misjudge an attack and end up taking a fist to the mouth.

You spit blood, trying not to lose your cool--at least it was a fist and not a knife--but you’d seen the Daves with bleeding mouths and dammit you were hoping this would happen later in the timeline of this fight.

As the fifth Dave, you tell the first Dave, who has been pretty useless so far, to provide a distraction.

As the sixth Dave you take your own advice and play a game of cat and mouse with Noir, letting your counterparts get some close misses and acquiring a half-inch deep cut on your thigh.

As the seventh Dave you attempt a reckless charge and flashstep away a fraction of a second too late to avoid a slash to the chest.

At your new location, a green flash in the corner of your eye says you’re about to die, and then another Dave punches Noir in the face and you both step off to let other Daves handle the situation.

As the eighth Dave you save the seventh Dave and then move on to bail out a future self.

As the ninth Dave you hang to one side looking for an opening until Noir spots you and your past self bails you out.

As the tenth Dave, you succeed in avoiding Noir’s attention and manage to be the Dave who drives a sword into his back when the first Dave distracts him.

Things become a bit of a blur after that.  You kind of stop thinking about things and just let it happen in the subconscious knowledge that you can’t really fuck anything up anymore.

And then, before you know it, it’s just you, bloody and panting, listening for the scream.   When it comes you glance back at your first self—you barely remembered he—you—would be there.  “Go back,” you say, and as he—you—shrugs and vanishes, you limp away from the empty silence of the parking lot in the direction of the scream.

Noir’s on the ground missing an arm when you get there, and you almost throw up at the sight.  You’re plenty fine with blood on its own, but you’re already kind of delirious and missing limbs aren’t something you’re prepared to deal with.

Oh, and there’s Bro, cleaning little drops of blood off of his katana.

**12:04 am**

**Bro: Congratulate little brother**

You say time travel, huh.  He kind of frowns at you and asks if you had a conversation with him, so you guess that’s in his future?  Time travel sure is weird.

Of course it’s in his future though, you just remembered his stitches and bandages.  You say hey kid come here and get patched up.  He says he can sew up his own cuts, thanks, and you just give him a look.  It only takes a moment before he grumbles something about fuckin’ paradoxes and settles down next to you.

He says get the other guy first though.  You say why.  He says the guy has to go back to 2003, ‘cuz his future self has shit to do.  He’s goin’ back one way or another.

So you knock out the short bastard and tell the kid to apply pressure to the wound while you tie an impromptu tourniquet.  By the time everything’s all sorted, you’re both covered in blood and Dave staggers in a really ungraceful way when he hauls Noir’s remaining arm over his shoulders.

You say are you gonna be okay kid, but he just shrugs and jostles the guy for a better angle.  Says get the little white ring off the hand of that arm okay, it belongs to Jade’s family.

And then he’s gone.

 

**Monday, 4/11/2013**

**1:45**

**Jade: Elucidate.**

You’re about to go to bed when Dave calls.  You’ve had a long week full of meetings that mostly involved convincing people they should listen to you even though you’re a sixteen-year-old girl and you’re ready to sleep.

As you pick up your buzzing phone, you feel a headache coming on.

“…Dave?”

“Harley, hey, sorry about that.”

“…What?”

“Never mind, you’ll find out soon enough.  Can you tell me about the tech that got stolen in 2003?”

“Dave, can you ask me about this later?”

“Sorry, no, it happens now.”

“Ugh!  Dave, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means tell me now, Harley, pretty please with a cherry on top, it’s super fucking important.”  He actually sounds a little bit desperate.  You can’t help giggling a little at that and you sit up in bed to keep yourself awake.

“So you want to know about grandpa’s teleportation ring?”

“It’s a fucking teleportation ring?”

You roll your eyes.  “That’s what I said!  Now come on, Dave, listen!”

“Right, sorry, go.”

“I was seven when it got stolen but I was almost ten when they caught the guy who did it.  He was a mean piece of work, so I get it, but grandpa was furious and kept saying they should’ve let him hunt Jack Noir down personally.  By the time they got him—it was the police, can you believe it, not even the FBI guys—the ring was nowhere to be found!  And without that, grandpa’s case was a little weaker…  He didn’t walk, but the sentence wasn’t what he was hoping for.”

“That sucks, Harley,” he says, and sounds like he means it.  You smile again and close your eyes.  “Just one more thing, when they found him, did he have the metal arm already?”

“What? Oh…  Yes, I think…  Yes, he definitely did!  Because he wouldn’t tell them how he lost it.  Is that all you wanted to know?”

“Yeah, sorry again.”

“No problem!”

You hang up and settle back down onto your bed, exhausted.  Finally, time to—

Your phone rings again.

It’s Dave.  Against your better judgment, you flip the phone open and mumble, “What now?”

There’s a pause.  He says, slowly, “…did we already talk?”

“Is this some kind of ironic thing?  Come on, you called me like five minutes ago, Dave!  Don’t pretend you forgot!  We can talk again in the morning, okay?  I ‘m really tired now.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He hangs up and you fall back on your pillow.  Your last thought before falling asleep is, Striders are silly.

 

**Wednesday, 4/13/2013**

**John: Do something funny.**

Rose convinced her mom not to order Chinese today too, so instead it’s Greek food with your birthday cake.  And you, with some coaxing, persuaded your dad to just go out and leave you with your friends.  You can’t pretend you didn’t see the proud tears in his eyes when he left.  It’s a little bit embarrassing but you guess you can deal.  You guess it’s kind of touching.

Jade’s here too, something you weren’t really expecting this birthday what with all the business stuff she has in the fire.  But here she is anyway, a little white ring around her finger, digging into an immense piece of your dad’s famous chocolate cake.  Rose is composing a birthday sonnet—the Birthday Song wasn’t good enough—and Dave is arguing that a birthday rap is much more appropriate for his bro Egbert.  They’ll probably end up doing some kind of weird rap/sonnet combo.  You’d be cool with that.

Someone knocks and you, almost certain it’s your dad, back to…give you another cake, or something, swing the door wide open and say, “We’re fine, really, we—”

It’s Dave.

 

You look hard at him, then back at the Dave inside, then say, “Wow, when are you from?”

“What?”

“You know it’s my birthday today, right?”

“I—fuck!” says Dave, and tries to duck back out the door.  A moment later, you understand why.

Current Dave pulls Dave from whatever time back inside and says, “You’re fucking it up because you’re fighting it.  Don’t think about time in numbers, it just screws you up.  You gotta just know you’re going to end up where you need to be, and most of the time that’s where you want to go, you feel me?”

“What?”

“Oh, it’s past Dave!” says Jade cheerfully.  Rose glances up at the two Daves in mild interest before continuing to pen her third stanza.

“(Damn, what was I doing before I came here?)  Oh.  Okay, I get you wanted to come back here and talk to Rose again, but it’s like Bro said, you shouldn’t really give a fuck if you’re not hurting anyone.  And you’re not crazy, obviously.  So just relax and do what you gotta, you feel me?”

You take this opportunity to grab one of the trick party hats Dad bought you from the top of the hotel room dresser.  Past Dave is still staring, poleaxed, and it’s the work of a moment to pull the hat on over his head.

He moves instantly to get it off, and you’re kind of bummed for a second because it needs time to get stuck.  But then current Dave, looking kind of pained, grabs his wrists and says, “It has to be this way.”

“The fuck are you talking about?  Let me get this thing off my head!”

It occurs to you that you should probably give past Dave a little advice for the future.  “By the way,” you say, “when that dude attacks Rose’s mom and my dad on their probably a date, it all turns out—”

“No!” says past Dave.  He’s been looking continuously more flustered, which is a pretty funny look on a Strider, and now he pulls away from his future self and tugs at the hat.  Some of his hair lifts with it.  He grimaces.  “…You’ll pay for this, Egbert.”

“Don’t worry,” you say cheerfully, “it’s not permanent!  Just remember, the date—”

“Some asshole attacks them, you said, don’t tell me anything else.  I’m gone. Strider has left the building.”

And in a flash he’s gone.

“You know,” you say thoughtfully to the remaining Dave, “this explains why you were wearing that party hat all last—”

“Let’s not talk about that,” he says flatly.  “Mention it again and you’re not getting your present, Egbert.”

“Oh come on, can’t you at least be grateful to the friends who accepted you as the time traveling freak you are?”

“Please,” Dave mutters.  “Jade can teleport now.  The rest of you are probably gonna turn out to be worse freaks than me.  Rose can probably see the future or some shit.”

“And I know you wouldn’t judge me for that,” says Rose smoothly.  “Now get over here so we can recite this together.”

“Are we doing this?” asks Dave, ambling over to peer down at the notebook.

“Where making this hapen!” chirps Jade, pulling the lighter carefully away from the last candle.  “Happy birthday, John!”

You think as they make their way through the revamped Birthday Song that Rose is probably right—no matter what kind of freaky things end up happening to the four of you, there isn’t a power in the world that can destroy your friendship.  It sounds like a bit of a cliché, even to you, but it’s a pretty cool one and also true.

“John, it’s candle time, make a wish!”

Secure in the knowledge you can take whatever life throws at you, you take the deepest breath you can and prepare to blow out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for not being able to write Striders.


End file.
